Cut and Run

by Mary Burton

  The reporter cut to a woman inspecting a sun-bleached skull as she began to speak in a husky voice tinged with a Texas accent. The voice Macy had heard on her voicemail.

  The reporter introduced Dr. Faith McIntyre, and Macy leaned in and watched closely as the woman looked up toward the camera. Macy hit pause and stared at the face that could have been her own. Same blue eyes. Same cheekbones. Lips. Ears. Same everything.

  She opened a new window and quickly searched social media sites, but found no trace of Faith. Like her, Faith had no presence. She did another search and found a reference to Faith, who had appeared in the paper yesterday promoting an upcoming fundraiser for a youth shelter.

  If she wasn’t this woman’s identical twin, then she was related in some way. After all these years of not resembling anyone in her family, she’d found someone who looked exactly like her. That elicited a bone-deep satisfaction.

  She brushed a tear from her eye—along with any temptation to call Faith right now. First, Jack.

  Focusing, Macy searched the last address Jack had visited after he’d been to the ranch. The address matched a local bar in East Austin called Second Chances. On the bar’s website she learned the place had been owned for almost thirty years by a guy named Danny Garnet. Garnet didn’t look familiar to her, and she guessed his age to be a few years younger than Jack’s. One of the postings on Garnet’s social media page promoted a Memorial Day celebration at the bar where all veterans drank for free.

  “Why did Jack visit you, Garnet?”

  Maybe the two had served together back in the day. Maybe they were friends. There was only one way to find out.

  She rose and redressed in a fresh pair of jeans and shirt she’d crammed in her backpack very early that morning, dried her hair, and reapplied some makeup. Staring at her reflection, she realized her hands were shaking slightly as she brushed on her mascara. She flexed her fingers, willing them to settle.

  “Sure, the foundation of your life might have been shot to shit,” she said to her reflection. “But you will deal like you always do.”

  What had Jack used to say to her? “Toughen up, buttercup.” The last time he’d told her that, she’d called him during her FBI training at Quantico. The O-course was kicking her ass, and she’d wanted Pop to lend a sympathetic ear. When he’d uttered the words, she’d told him to shut up. He’d laughed, and then she’d started laughing. The next day she had made it through under the six-minute deadline.

  She snapped a picture of her driver’s license, as well as her FBI identification, and then for good measure a selfie. She sent all three to her computer. She opened an email, dragged in the pictures, and typed in Faith’s business email address.

  My name is Macy Crow. I’m Jack Crow’s daughter. We’ve spoken only through voicemail, but we need to talk in person.

  This might seem out of left field, but I believe we’re related. I’m adopted and have been searching for my biological roots for several years. My adoptive father, Jack Crow, passed away on Sunday, and ironically, you were the pathologist who took care of him.

  I’ve attached two addresses that Jack left me on a prepaid phone I found at his trailer. I’ve been to the one in the country, and I’ve got a gut feeling something very wrong happened there.

  Macy Crow

  P.S. A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ve enclosed a few of mine.

  Instead of sending the email now, she scheduled it for five p.m. tomorrow. The delay gave her an out in case she got cold feet or had a chance to have this conversation with Faith in person. And given she just might have found three graves, she had to at least make contact with Faith in case it went sideways at Garnet’s.

  She tugged her boots back on, but opted to leave her computer behind on her desk, along with Jack’s keys and the phone he’d left her. Again, if it all went bad at the bar or the email failed to send or whatever else could go wrong, because Murphy’s Law always bit hard, the cops would have the addresses.

  Macy checked her service weapon before settling it back in its holster on her hip and pulling on her jacket. She checked her backpack for her wallet and ID as she always did and left the room. She placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.

  At one in the morning, she stood in the lobby and ordered a car, knowing the credit card purchase would create a digital trail that, God willing, any rookie cop could follow. The car arrived five minutes later, and she settled in the back seat, her backpack beside her. She watched the lights of the city race past as they drove east and toward the bar on Third Street.

  When the driver pulled up, she found Second Chances to be fairly unimpressive from the outside. The windows were small, the front door solid, and a red neon OPEN sign flashed above the entrance.

  Out of the car, she drew in a breath, crossed the street to the tavern’s entrance, and pulled open its heavy wooden door.

  It was a classic Austin bar featuring a funky decor that included local art. The ceiling was painted a deep blue and covered in white clouds and stars. The round tables were painted different colors, and the chairs looked as if they had been sourced from multiple locations. Every stick of furniture in the bar looked as if it had been repurposed. What might have looked shabby in the daylight passed for charming at night.

  A country western song rumbled from a jukebox as the heavy scents of cigarette smoke and whiskey mingled. Conversation buzzed as a flat-screen television broadcast a boxing match as she crossed to the bar made of white oak and covered in a thick laminate.

  Dozens of house-brand liquor bottles were shelved against a mirrored wall reflecting bright task lighting. Beside the bar was a corkboard that featured local sales, festivals, and even a reward for information on a missing girl named Paige Sheldon. Six years on the human trafficking squad had her studying the girl’s face and name. The girl had vanished almost three months ago, and Macy knew from experience that the chances of finding her alive were almost nil. She tried not to think about what happened to pretty girls taken by monsters.

  The bartender at the other end had his back to her. He was a big man with immense shoulders and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Before he could turn, saloon doors separating the front of the house from the back swung open.

  The woman who appeared was in her late forties. She had red hair fashioned into a topknot sprouting loose curls that fell across a pale face splattered with freckles. Her smile was quick and warm. She wore a black Second Chances T-shirt that stretched over large breasts and a full belly.

  “Hope you haven’t been sitting there long?” the woman said.

  “Nope. Just arrived.”

  She wiped the bar with a clean rag. “Looks like Garnet is preoccupied. What can I get you?”

  “I’d love a beer. Draft will do.”

  “Coming right up.” She placed an iced mug under the tap and pulled until beer and foam spilled over the edge. She set a napkin on the bar and then the beer, all in one fluid move. “You new in town? I’ve never seen you in here before.”

  Macy took a sip. “I was born and raised in Texas, but I haven’t been back in years.”

  “I can still hear a bit of a Texas accent.”

  She took another sip, deciding it was decent. “Raised in Dallas mostly by my mama.”

  “Once Texas gets in your blood, there’s no getting it out.” The woman filled a wooden bowl with salted peanuts and set it in front of Macy. “So what brings you back?”

  “My dad passed. Cleaning out his things.”

  “Sorry to hear that, baby. My name is Heather.”

  “I’m Macy. I was going through my dad’s things, and I found a note saying he had a good friend who worked here,” she lied. “Danny Garnet.”

  The woman’s smile didn’t vanish, but it seemed to freeze. “Well, you found the right place. Garnet owns the joint. He’s the lug over there.”

  “I didn’t know my father that well, so I guess I’m trying to talk to anyone who knew him.” It was always best to stick to t
he truth unless a lie was necessary. Made it easier to keep the stories straight.

  The woman fiddled with a ringlet that coiled behind her ear. “Who was your daddy? I might know him as well.”

  Macy studied the woman’s face closely as she took another sip of beer. “Jack Crow.”

  Heather’s smile dimmed, and she dropped her gaze. Macy knew enough about body language to know the woman recognized Jack’s name, and she’d looked away so she could compose an answer she thought would work best. “Jack Crow?”

  “Yeah. He owned a salvage yard about fifteen miles from here. I barely knew Jack growing up, so I’m on this discovery tour. I only have a few days before I have to get back to school. I teach kindergarten.”

  Heather raised her gaze, and the smile returned. “I had to think for a minute. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jack.”

  Maybe Heather had not been there the day Jack visited. Or maybe she was lying. “He’s a hard man to forget.”

  Heather tapped her index finger on the bar as if pinning down a memory. “I remember a big bear of a man like Garnet.”

  “That was Jack. You think I could talk to Garnet?”

  “Sure thing, baby.”

  Heather tossed a faltering smile and then moved down to the end of the bar. She placed her hand on Garnet’s shoulder, and he looked a little annoyed until she leaned in and spoke. Garnet’s body straightened, and his smile faded. Macy couldn’t hear, but she guessed news of Jack Crow’s kid arriving wasn’t good.

  When Garnet turned, he wore a broad grin on his face. He studied her as he moved closer.

  She sipped her beer, meeting his gaze and doing her best to smile even as she wondered if he was the guy who had broken Jack’s fingers and knee before her old man’s heart had seized. “You must be Garnet.”

  “I sure am. And you’re Jack Crow’s kid. Heather tells me Jack died?”

  “Heart attack on Sunday.”

  The lines on Garnet’s face deepened. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah. It was out of the blue. No one saw it coming,” she said.

  She imagined the worry and sadness that had flashed in his gaze giving way to something more hard and calculating. But whatever she thought she’d seen was gone as quickly as it had come. “He said you two were friends back in the day.”

  “We sure were. He saved my ass a few times.” That thousand-watt smile dimmed just a tad. “So how did you find me?”

  “Saw a note with your name on it. Jack didn’t have many friends, so I took a chance.”

  “Pretty savvy for a kindergarten teacher.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got to be quick to stay ahead of those five-year-olds.”

  His deep-throated laugh rang a little hollow. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have kids.”

  She lowered her gaze to her beer, not wanting to put him on the defensive. She paused for effect before she slowly lifted her eyes. “Had you seen Jack lately?”

  “It’s been years. We always said we’d keep up after the army, but you know how it goes.”

  She nodded as she sipped her beer. “I was just hoping to learn more about my old man. Figured I’d try.”

  “I wish there was more I could tell you about him. All my stories are over thirty years old.”

  “I’ll take an old story,” she quipped.

  He shrugged. “When we were in the army, I got into some trouble with the MPs. I think they’d have thrown me in the brig and tossed the key if Jack hadn’t intervened. He could schmooze anyone when he put his mind to it. The MPs let me go, and Jack never told a soul. He was the kind of guy you could always rely on.”

  “But you two lost touch?”

  “It happens. Life moves on.”

  She wondered if Jack had gone to his grave protecting Garnet’s secret. “That was Jack. Loyal to a fault.”

  “Drink up. You’ve barely touched your beer,” Garnet said.

  She raised the mug to her lips. “No letter, no call, nothing recently? Just seems odd he’d write your name down and not follow through with a visit.”

  He grinned, shaking his finger at her. “Now you really sound like a cop.”

  She laughed as she patted her index finger against her temple. “Being a teacher, I’m saddled with an analytical mind that won’t accept an unsolved problem.”

  “I guess you’re a chip off the old block. Jack was like that.”

  Macy reached for her wallet, but Garnet shook his head. “How much do I owe you?”

  His gaze sharpened as if he were either trying to pry behind her words or reaching for an old memory that danced in the distance. And then he smiled again. “Your money is no good here. Beer’s on the house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positively.”

  “I appreciate the time and the brew.” Her father had been murdered, and he’d left her three addresses. Jack knew there was trouble brewing. He’d called the Rangers and set her up as his contingency plan. Now it was her turn to call the Texas Rangers and let them know what she’d found.

  “Sure thing, kid. Sure thing. Is there going to be a funeral for Jack?”

  “No. He wasn’t crazy about that kind of thing.”

  “You’re right. He never liked a fuss.” He shook his head as he studied her features. “You must take after your mother, because you sure don’t look like Jack.”

  She grinned. “I get that a lot. My mom always said I looked like her mother.” She recited her mother’s lie because she’d heard it so many times, and it felt more natural than the real truth of her life.

  “Brenda was your mother?”

  “That’s right. She and Jack split when I was two. Did you know my mom?”

  “I met her once when she and your father were dating.”

  If he’d known Brenda, whose skin and hair were as dark as Jack’s, and he had any inkling about genetics, he might wonder how the couple had grown Macy from scratch.

  He filled a fresh bowl of peanuts for her and aligned it precisely next to the other bowl. “How is Brenda?”

  “She passed eight years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What was it?”

  “Lung cancer. The smokes finally got her.”

  Before he could ask another question, a patron at the end of the bar waved Garnet over, and he told her to hold that thought as he refilled the man’s mug.

  She glanced in the mirror behind the bar, catching its reflection of the room, looking for signs that anyone was watching her. There were a few men checking her out, but with her bitch face locked in place, she had another minute or two before some crazy soul dared approach.

  A man on her right took the bar seat beside her and drew Garnet’s attention. She didn’t bother a glance as his rusty voice ordered a scotch.

  He didn’t acknowledge her but reached in the bowl of nuts and scooped up a handful. He crunched on nuts as he waited for Garnet to bring him his drink. Finally, he asked, “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so, pal.” A glance to her right revealed a good-looking man in jeans and a V-neck lightweight pullover. He’d pushed up his sleeves, revealing sinewy forearms.

  “I could have sworn I saw you the other day,” he said.

  If she’d been feeling generous, she’d have given him a point for persistence, but she wasn’t, so he got two strikes for his inability to read social cues. “Not me. I don’t live here.”

  “What brings you to Austin?” he asked.

  “I didn’t come for conversation.”

  He laughed. “Ouch. Tough crowd. My name is—”

  “I don’t want to know.” With her new friend sitting here, she’d have no opportunity to really ask Garnet anything and decided her visit was officially a bust. She pulled a twenty from her pocket and laid it on the bar, knowing she didn’t want anything for free from Garnet.

  She took one last long pull from her beer and slid off her barstool.

  “Leaving so soon?” the man asked.

  “I have an e
arly flight in the morning.”

  “Back to?”

  “An enchanted land far, far away.”

  He scooped up another handful of nuts. “It’s a small world. My Spider-Man sense says we’ll see each other again.” He tossed several in his mouth. Crunch. Crunch.

  She rose and left the bar. After crossing the street, she decided to cut down the side street as she fished her phone from her pocket and ordered another car. The driver promised to meet her on the street that ran parallel to this one near the park. When she wondered why, she then realized this section was one-way.

  As she walked, she saw another poster of Paige Sheldon. This one was torn and weather-beaten, and someone had written a mustache over her smiling lips. When did a missing girl become a damned joke?

  Without thinking she snapped a picture of it with her phone. Might mean nothing, but better to have the reference at her fingertips.

  Walking away from the bar down Third Street, she searched her phone for Mitchell Hayden’s phone number. Unlike Spider-Man’s sense, she did trust her own, and it was telling her that the morning was going to be too late to call the Rangers.

  Just outside the arched entrance of Comal Pocket Park, she saw a homeless man. He was wearing an army-issue jacket and when he looked up, their gazes locked. For a quick instant he reminded her of Jack, and she wondered where Jack would have ended up without the salvage yard. Knowing she’d given her last twenty to the bartender, she crossed the street to an ATM, pulled out sixty bucks, and returned to him. She gave him twenty.

  “Thanks, pretty lady,” he said.

  “Don’t drink it. Get something to eat.”

  “I will.” He crumpled the bill up into a tight fist. “I was just dreaming about a hamburger.”

  “Now is the time to get one.” She thought about the poster of the girl and pulled it up on her phone. “Have you been around here long?”

  “Years. This is my home.”

  She showed him the picture. “Did you ever see this girl?”

  “The missing girl.”

  “That’s right. She vanished in May.”